


A Perfectly Normal Velocipede Ride

by lenin_it_to_win_it



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Other, and some bastard geese, because such is life, but the sadder stuff is There, but this fic isnt super angsty in general like mostly its fluff and memery, crowley has anxiety/ptsd, from the whole end of the world thing, he protecc (aziraphale) but he attacc (anything thats not aziraphale), its not all doom and gloom tho, which in this fic includes a very unfortunate (but perfectly normal) velocipede
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 18:27:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19950826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenin_it_to_win_it/pseuds/lenin_it_to_win_it
Summary: Crowley has difficulty relaxing during a bike ride with Aziraphale. Every minor issue reminds him of greater dangers he and Aziraphale have faced, as well as the troubles that could await them in the future. Fortunately for Crowley, a certain angel is determined to cheer him up.





	A Perfectly Normal Velocipede Ride

**Author's Note:**

> I deadass started writing this bc the word "velocipede" is so fuckign funny to me and it ended up being over 5000 words and also involving trauma, though tbh this fic is NOT super sad or angsty but that's the most plot-relevant stuff so it ended up being over-represented in the summary rip

Crowley was sprawled out on the couch, half-watching whatever inane sitcom happened to be playing at the time, when he heard Aziraphale’s voice.  
  
“Oh, hello, darling! You’re looking well today, aren’t you? Oh, my, how lovely you are!”

Crowley was on his feet instantly, burning with jealous rage. He stormed toward the sound of Aziraphale’s voice only to find him chattering away to his plants. “This again,” Crowley muttered, angry with himself for overreacting and more than a little annoyed at Aziraphale. The plants were fine, as far as plants went, but they were nothing special. There was certainly nothing _lovely_ about them, or any need to call them ‘ _darling_ ’. 

“W _e’ve been friends for over six thousand years, and he’s never called_ me _‘darling’_.”

“Oh, hello, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “I just got back from my morning stroll, and I thought I would tend to the garden.”

“Did you.” 

One of the more exasperating tendencies Aziraphale had displayed since moving into Crowley’s apartment— along with leaving all his junk and clutter _everywhere_ because he claimed it somehow ‘sparked joy’ _—_ was his enthusiasm for gardening. Crowley might have found it cute how eagerly Aziraphale tended to the plants, or how happy he seemed to get when they were doing well, but he couldn’t help but feel spiteful when he saw how much larger and more vibrant the plants had grown in the months since Aziraphale had moved in. 

“ _I’ve been looking after them for years. Ingrateful bastards._ ” 

Of course, Aziraphale wasn’t above a bit of cheating now and then.  
  
“Oh, you poor dear!” Aziraphale exclaimed, dropping his armload of shopping bags to touch a certain outstretched leaf. “A leaf spot!”  
  
Crowley hissed, making the plant tremble, and Aziraphale glared at him before lavishing his attention on the plant.

“Here, darling, let me help you,” said Aziraphale, lifting the thin, trembling leaf to his lips and giving it a gentle kiss. The spot vanished, and the plant burst into bloom, with large, brilliant blossoms manifesting instantly. “Oh!” Aziraphale looked up at the flowers, surprised but pleased. “Goodness me, I didn’t know that species _could_ flower!” 

Crowley, who didn’t hold with wasting miracles on useless plants and had therefore done his research, scowled darkly at the plant Aziraphale had kissed. “It doesn’t.” He crossed the room and began picking up the three shopping bags Aziraphale had been holding. “Bookshop or bakery?” Crowley asked, naming the two places Aziraphale most liked to frequent on his morning walks. He carried the bags into the living room and set them down on the coffee table.

Aziraphale trailed behind Crowley, settling down on the couch. “Both, actually,” he said as he began to unload the bags. “No books on prophecy today, I’m afraid, but I found several others that seemed like they would make for a good read.” He handed Crowley a book from his sizeable stack. “Here, now, doesn’t that look fascinating?” 

Crowley frowned at the battered cover. “ _‘A Gentleman’s Encyclopediac Guide to Cycling?’_ ” 

  
“Yes, from 1842! Can you imagine, just happening upon a gem like this?” 

Crowley tried to imagine himself speaking as enthusiastically about anything the way Aziraphale was gushing about some battered bicycle book from the 1840’s. He was unsuccessful. 

“You don’t even have a bike.” 

“It’s not about that, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, his tone somewhere between patient and patronizing. “It’s about pursuing knowledge for its own sake, and being open and willing to learn.”

“I had a bike once,” said Crowley, who had started tuning Aziraphale out when he began talking about the pursuit of knowledge. It was a necesssary form of self-defense. “It wasn’t half bad. I kind of liked riding it.”  
  
Aziraphale smiled in triumph. “Well, then, perhaps my book won’t be so useless after all!”

“I don’t have it anymore,” said Crowley, frowning as he tried to recall what had happened to it. “Lost it, maybe, or had it stolen. . . must’ve been around forty, fifty years ago. . .” 

“Well, if you enjoyed it so much, you could always purchase a new one,” Aziraphale suggested amicably, setting his books down and picking up another bag, which contained a small bakery box. He gave Crowley a stern look. “And I do mean _purchase_ , Crowley, not steal.” 

“What’d you steal?” Crowley asked, nodding at the box. 

Aziraphale’s cheeks colored, and he gave an indignant huff. “I didn’t steal anything, but if you’d like to know what I bought—” His annoyed expression gave way to a bright smile; Aziraphale never could stay upset for long if there was food involved. “—I saw these muffins in a bakery window on the way home, and they looked marvelous, so I picked out a whole box of different flavors for us to try! There’s blueberry, chocolate, poppy seed—”

  
“Poppy seed?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what they make opium out of?” 

Aziraphale was appalled. “No, they’re not made of opium!”

“Not the _muffins_ ,” said Crowley, exasperated. “The poppy seeds. Don’t you grind those up to make opium, or whatever?” 

“I wouldn’t know, having never been involved in the opium industry myself,” said Aziraphale archly.   
  
“Give me a break, angel, it was the 19th century! Everyone was involved in the opium industry!”

“Well, then, this should be right up your alley,” Aziraphale replied, shaking his head as he gave Crowley a poppy seed muffin. “Your dark, seedy, crime-ridden demon alley.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes and bit into the muffin. 

  
“How is it?” asked Aziraphale, hands clasped eagerly. “Do you like it?”

Crowley swallowed his bite of muffin, considering. He supposed it was decent, as far as human food went, but that wasn’t saying much. Humans spent so much time cooking elaborate dishes while turning their noses up at a perfectly good insect or small lizard.

  
“ _No accounting for taste there_ ,” Crowley thought. 

  
Out loud, he just said, “Sure.”

“Oh, good!” Aziraphale beamed. “Then we can have breakfast together. It’s so lovely when the two of us can share a meal— _properly_ share one, anyway,” he said, pausing his perusal of muffins long enough to give Crowley a forlorn look.  
  
“Come on, now, angel. What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley shook his head, annoyed. “We eat together all the time.”  
  
“Nooo,” said Aziraphale, drawing out the word. “We go out together, and _I_ eat, while _you_ just sit there and watch, and make me feel like a— like a selfish goose!” he concluded with a frown.  
  
“Are geese selfish?” Crowley asked, brow furrowed. “Guess you never see one donating to charity or anything,” he added to himself. “But that could just be because they’re, you know. Geese. Can’t hold wallets with their little wings.”

“I don’t think the expression’s meant to be taken literally, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, finally deciding on a chocolate muffin. “Oh!” He uttered a happy little exclamation as he took the first bite. “These really are quite good!” 

Crowley enjoyed watching Aziraphale eat more than he had ever liked actually eating something, but there was no way to admit to that without getting mired in all kinds of gooey sentiment, so hepicked up the last of Aziraphale’s shopping bags instead. “What’s in here?” he asked, pulling out a small box.  
  
“Oh, do be careful with that, Crowley!” Aziraphale rushed over and took the box, examining it carefully. “It’s very fragile,” he said, opening the box with a whisper.

Crowley squinted at the object in Aziraphale’s hand. “Is that an egg?” 

  
“A fabergé egg, yes,” said Aziraphale, smiling down at the egg. “Isn’t it charming? I found it at an antique store and simply had to have it.” 

Crowley decided he didn’t much care for how fondly Aziraphale was looking at the egg. “Yes, it just what this aparmtent needs, a fabrashay egg,” he said, crossing his arms. “We were running low on expensive clutter. Especially clutter that’s so fragile you have to _whisper_ while you’re holding it.” 

  
Aziraphale flushed. “Well, I’m only being careful,” he said at a normal volume. 

Crowley snorted, thinking of all the times Aziraphale had thoughtlessly gotten himself into risky situations through sheer lack of caution. “Fine time to start.” Aziraphale looked hurt, so Crowley decided to change the subject. He glanced at the cycling book. “We should get bikes.”  
  
“Pardon?”

  
“You said earlier that I should buy a bike, if I wanted one,” said Crowley with a shrug. “I want one. And you should get one, too. We could go riding together.” Crowley added the last few words in a rush.  
  
“Why, Crowley, that sounds delightful!” Aziraphale’s eyes shone with excitement. “We’ll go right after breakfast,” he added, setting the fabergé egg down and picking up his muffin again.

  
Crowley lifted his muffin in a mock toast. “Here, here!” 

Once Aziraphale finished his— and Crowley’s— breakfast, he left to put the books and fabergé egg away. “I’ll just set these in the bedroom for now,” he said. “Then we can go and purchase our velocipedes.”  


“Bikes!” Crowley shouted after him. “Just call them bikes! No one says velocipede anymore!”

Once Aziraphale was out of sight, Crowley crept back toward the plant room and flung open the door. The plants began trembling at once. “That’s right, I haven’t forgotten you bastards, he hissed. “When I get back here. . .” He gave the plant Aziraphale had kissed an especially malevolent glare. “I’m making _salad_.” 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called from the living room.

  
“Coming!” 

***

A few hours later, velocipedes duly purchased, Crowley and Aziraphale set off on their bike ride. It had been decades since Crowley had ridden one, but it was hardly difficult to figure out. Or so he thought.

“C-Crowley,” Aziraphale panted, struggling to keep his bike simultaneously upright and moving forward. “Please, can we— can we take a break? Just for a little while?” 

Poor Aziraphale was flushed and sweaty, in no small part because he lacked the foresight to dress for the occasion, and the many thick layers of his usual outfit were suffocatingly hot under the burning sun. Aziraphale and his bike would lurch forward a few feet then come to a sudden halt. The pedals kept getting stuck— or so Aziraphale claimed. Crowley wasn’t convinced, although it wasn’t out of the question, as Aziraphale had chosen a rickety secondhand bicycle that probably hadn’t seen use in the past fifty years because he thought it “looked unloved”. 

It was a battered old yellow thing with a torn wicker basket attached to the handlebars, which Aziraphale had promptly filled with the armload of books he had picked up over the course of the morning. The books threatened to spill out at every turn, causing Aziraphale no small amount of distress as he struggled to keep them from falling. 

“It hasn’t even been thirty minutes, angel,” said Crowley, grinning. “You can’t be tired already.” Aziraphale glared at him, but he looked so absurd tottering along on his atrocity of a bike that Crowley just laughed. “Just a little further,” he said, calling back to Aziraphale as he pedaled ahead. “There’s a pond not far from here. We’ll stop there.”

Aziraphale sighed, resigning himself to his hot, sticky fate. “Oh, alright then. If it’s just a little further. . .” 

When they reached the pond, Crowley presented Aziraphale with a surprise.   
  
“A picnic!” Aziraphale exclaimed in delight.

  
“It’s just a sandwich and some grapes,” said Crowley, trying his best to seem nonchalant. “Hardly dinner at the Ritz.” 

  
“Oh, but it’s so thoughtful, and lovely, and—”

Crowley gagged. “I’m gonna be sick.” 

“Well, it’s true,” Aziraphale insisted. “If you don’t want me to say nice things about you, then you shouldn’t be so nice all the time.”  
  
“I am _not_ —” Crowley was cut off by a loud honk, and he turned to see a flock of large geese waddling out of the pond. “Hey! Shut up, you bastards! Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to interrupt?”

  
“Crowley!” Aziraphale shot him a look of consternation, then smiled at the geese. “Oh, hello, there. Would you like to join our picnic, too?”  
  
Crowley started to warn him. “Don’t—”

But Aziraphale had already torn the crusts off his sandwich. “Here you go! Come and get it!” 

Come and get it, they did. 

The geese swarmed toward Aziraphale as one. “Oh, dear,” he said delicately, eyes widening. “Now, really, there’s no need to— ah!” He yelped as a goose nipped at his hand. He tried to move backward, but tripped over his bike. “Blasted thing! Ah!” The geese kept coming. “Crowley! Crowley, do something!” 

For a moment, Crowley was paralyzed. In a sick twist of memory, he was not seeing geese but rather angels and demons converging on Aziraphale. It was the apocalypse all over again, it was the end of the world. . . 

Aziraphale was in danger. That was the only thing that mattered. 

Crowley transformed into a snake and launched himself at the attackers. He hissed, bit, and writhed in a savage blur, lunging madly in all directions until he felt a gentle hand on his head. Aziraphale. 

Crowley’s head cleared, and he saw ruffled geese retreating into the pond while less fortunate birds littered the ground. His mouth tasted like blood and pond scum. Aziraphale’s voice sounded distant, even though Crowley could feel him nearby. 

“It’s alright now, Crowley. It’s alright. . .”

Crowley changed back into his human form and immediately locked his hands onto Azirphale’s shoulders, looking him up and down for any sign of injury. “Were you hurt?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Not really. I might have gotten a scratch here or there, but nothing worth worrying about.” He laughed sheepishly. “Perhaps the expression really _was_ meant to be taken literally. Selfish geese, indeed.” 

Crowley sucked in a deep, shaky breath and loosened his grip on Aziraphale. “Let’s go,” he said in a tight, hard voice, eyes trained on the pond. “It isn’t safe here.”

“Oh. . .” Aziraphale lowered his eyes. “It was all my fault. I’m sorry for ruining our picnic, Crowley.” 

Crowley’s expression softened. “Another time, angel.”

  
Aziraphale brightened. “Really?” 

Crowley nodded. “‘Course,” he said, mounting his bicycle. A goose honked in the distance, and he hissed on instinct. “But not here. Come on.” 

Aziraphale sighed and got on his bike. “Oh, alright, alright.” The bike tentatively wobbled forward. “Here we go again. . .” 

For a few minutes, they rode along without incident. Aziraphale kept glancing at Crowley whenever he wasn’t looking, concerned. He hadn’t said a word since they left the pond, not even to tease Aziraphale for almost falling off his bike when a butterfly landed on his nose. He had just watched instead, with an intense expression on his face that only slightly faded when Aziraphale laughed and managed to keep his bike upright. 

Aziraphale started to feel a bit embarrassed upon reflection; perhaps his overreaction at the pond was why Crowley was so upset. “ _I should apologize_ ,” he thought, a decision that was easier said than done, since Crowley was so far ahead of him.  
  
“Come along now, darling,” Aziraphale whispered to his bike, giving the handlebars an encouraging pat. “Just a little faster. . .” The bike didn’t respond, which was probably for the best.

Aziraphale pedalled as hard as he could, and just as he managed to build up some decent speed, he hit a bump on the path and fell off his bike. He hit the ground, all the breath driven from his lungs by the impact. His bike swerved off the path, hit a tree, and fell over. Books tumbled out of the basket, spilling onto the dirt. A curious bird swooped down and started pecking at the cover of one, and Aziraphale winced.

“What happened?” Crowley’s voice was sharp with panic, and closer than Aziraphale would have expected. He had been so consumed by the fate of the books that he hadn’t even realized Crowley had come toward him after the fall. 

  
“Nothing, really,” Aziraphale rushed to reassure him, dusting off his clothes as he got to his feet. “I hit a bump in the road, but I’m alright now.” The fall had left him more surprised and dirty than genuinely hurt. His eyes darted toward the books, which were still being accosted by that bird. Now, _that_ merited concern. 

  
Crowley stalked around Aziraphale in a tight circle, every muscle in his body tensed. Aziraphale swallowed. He usually didn’t mind it when Crowley circled around him— it made him feel safe, cherised, even— but Crowley seemed so anxious that it was impossible not to worry. It wasn’t like him to show fear so easily, or over something so minor as a tumble off a bicycle.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was gentle, and he set a soft hand on Crowley’s shoulder, bringing his nervous spiralling to a temporary standstill. “Crowley, look at me.”

Crowley scowled in every direction but Aziraphale’s before giving in. Aziraphale could see that Crowley’s eyes were frightened behind the dark sunglasses, and there was a thin layer of perspiration building up on his forehead. His breathing came in sharp, shallow pants, as if the air was being forced out of his lungs before he had a chance to catch his breath. 

“I’m not hurt,” said Aziraphale, giving Crowley a small but reassuring smile. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned forward and kissed Crowley’s forehead. “You worry too much.” 

Crowley snapped out of the daze Aziraphale’s kiss had settled over him. “Oh, I’m sorry, angel, did I just _imagine_ the world almost coming to an end a few months ago?” he spat, his words laden with sarcasm. “Because it seems to me like I’m worrying the right amount I should be, given I almost lost you then, and I could lose you now, especially since you go blundering off into danger the minute I take my eyes off you! Can’t even ride a bloody _bicycle_ —!” Crowley’s tirade trailed off into an inarticulate snarl as he kicked Azirphale’s bike. 

Aziraphale was stunned into silence for a moment, unsure how to confront so much unexpected emotion. The only thing he could think to do was reach out and lay a hand on Crowley’s back before he could start kicking the bicycle again. “Please, calm down,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “You’ll only hurt yourself.” 

Crowley turned, the look on his face so venomous that Aziraphale had to fight the instinct to step backward. “Don’t tell me to calm down!” Crowley hissed. “Is it my fault you’re always getting into trouble? That I have to go around and protect you, like you’re some— some fragile little. . . fabergé egg?!” 

Aziraphale did his absolute best not to smile, but he could feel his lips quivering. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he did his best to look silently solemn and not at all as if it was taking every ounce of effort not laugh. 

“Don’t laugh,” Crowley warned. Aziraphale noted that he sounded calmer than before. “Don’t you dare laugh.” 

Aziraphale tried to seem indignant. “Laugh! At a time like this? Why would I laugh? This is serious! What could there possibly be to laugh about?” 

Crowley’s mouth twitched, and, suddenly, they were both laughing. 

“I—I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale wheezed, trying to regain some degree of composure. “It was wrong of me to laugh at you. It’s clear you’re upset, and I _do_ want to help you, really, but—” Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled at the corners, sparkling with mirth. “—a fabergé egg! And your pronounciation—!” He dissolved into a fresh bout of laughter. 

Crowley shook his head, grimacing. “That didn’t come out right. I’ll give you that.” 

“But, really, I am sorry that I upset you,” said Aziraphale when the laughter subsided, his eyes questioning as they took in Crowley’s brooding expression. “And for not understanding how frightened you were.” 

  
“I wasn’t _frightened_ ,” Crowley protested. “You make it sound like I’m scared. I’m not— I’m not _scared_.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and scowled at the ground. “I just. . . don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“And nothing will,” said Aziraphale. “We’re safe now,” he added in a whisper, trying to convince himself as well as Crowley. 

Crowley shot him a sharp look. “You know you can’t promise that.” 

Aziraphale swallowed. “Well. . .” As he avoided Crowley’s gaze, his eyes happened to fall upon the two bikes lying in the dirt. “I can promise to practice riding.”  
  
“You’ll practice _what_?”

“The velocipede!” Aziraphale flushed. “I meant— I meant, riding the bike.” He darted over to his bicycle and straightened it up, carefully replacing his books inside the basket. He offered Crowley a nervous smile. “If I ride it more often, then I’d be less likely to fall off in the future, wouldn’t I? And then you wouldn’t have to worry so much.”  
  
“Sure. About bike accidents.” Crowley sounded unimpressed.

“And you could come along,” Aziraphale continued, pretending to clean a nonexistent smudge off his handlebars so he could avoid Crowley’s eyes. “In case something does happen.” His words grew quieter and quieter. “We could start a. . . new tradition.” 

“A new tradition.” Crowley’s expression was inscrutable, then he smiled. “You’ll have to add it into your calendar.”  
  
“Every Sunday,” said Aziraphale. “Velocipede practice with Crowley.”

Crowley picked his own bicycle off the ground and slid on, pushing himself forward in the same effortless motion. “Lesson one,” he called back over his shoulder. “Don’t fall.” 

“Well, aren’t we clever?” Aziraphale huffed, mounting his bike in a much less graceful fashion. He pedaled after Crowley at a snail’s pace. “I’ll read that cyclist’s encyclopedia when we get home, and we’ll see who’s the fabergé egg then!” 

Crowley, who had been riding in circles to allow Aziraphale to catch up, smiled for a moment before a more serious look took hold of his features. “I don’t mind. . . protecting you, sometimes,” he said. “If you _were_ hurt earlier, I would have taken care of you.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t keep himself from blushing. “I know.” 

***

When they reached the apartment, Crowley dismounted with a single elegant step, and Aziraphale tripped over his bike’s pedals and would have fallen if Crowley hadn’t caught him. 

“Oh. . . thank you,” said Aziraphale, breathless from exertion. He straightened, stretching, and winced. “I’m sure I’ll have that figured out next week.” He took a stiff step forward and gingerly made his way toward the door, letting out a soft exhalation of pain as he extended his arm. 

Crowley frowned. “You’re hurt.” 

Aziraphale was about to remark that a little pain was only to be expected when one had a corporation unused and unsuited to vigorous physical activity when he recalled Crowley’s intent expression earlier.   
  
“ _I don’t mind protecting you. I would have taken care of you._ ”

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale let out a theatrical moan, sinking to his knees. “The pain I am in! It’s— it’s tremendous! Ohh! Ooh!” 

Crowley’s expression didn’t shift, but when he spoke, his voice was tinged with relief. “Is that so.”  
  
“It _is_ so!” cried Aziraphale. “So. . . agonizingly painful!” He sighed. “I don’t know _how_ I shall get on in this much pain. . .” He gave Crowley a hopeful look.

“You could stop acting, for one,” Crowley suggested with a smirk. “That’d be a good start.” 

“Acting?” Aziraphale put on his best wounded look, which was terribly cute but terribly unconvincing. “Would I lie to you, Crowley? You, my dearest friend?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Never in six thousand years.” 

Aziraphale beamed. “Precisely! Now, since I am so grievously injured—” He extended a hand to Crowley, who seized it in both of his. “—would you please be so kind as to give me a hand?” 

“I don’t do kindness,” Crowley scoffed, gently helping Aziraphale to his feet. He allowed his fingers to remain interlaced with Aziraphale’s a second longer than necessary before stepping away. 

  
“Oh, actually. . .” Aziraphale looked up imploringly at Crowley, who sighed and draped Aziraphale’s arm over his shoulder so he could support his weight. “Thank you, Crowley. You’re being ever so helpful. I don’t know what I would do without you.” 

Crowley snorted, equal parts amused and touched by Aziraphale’s transparent attempt to boost his ego. “I don’t know what you’d do either.” He led Aziraphale up the stairs and sat him down on the couch. “Stay here and rest.”   
  
Aziraphale laughed. “Yes, Dr. Crowley.”

“Hhrng. . .” Crowley was glad he had his back to Aziraphale so the angel wouldn’t see the absurd, besotted smile he couldn’t seem to wipe off his face. He darted about the apartment, gathering a small sampling of the many pillows and blankets Aziraphale had left lying about in the living room and bedroom. Crowley also picked up a few books at random, unsure what Aziraphale was currently reading but knowing he would likely want something. When Crowley returned to the couch, he found Aziraphale sitting in the same position he had left him in, watching him with expectant eyes. 

“Oh, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble!” exclaimed Aziraphale, doing absolutely nothing to prevent Crowley from going to all that trouble. He luxuriated on the couch as Crowley draped him in warm blankets and plied him with pillows. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well. . .” Crowley gently swatted Aziraphale with one of the pillows, grinning at the angel’s indignant squawk. “I’m only doing this because you’re all ‘grievously injured’, mind. No other reason.” 

“Oh, yes, yes, of course, terribly injured, yes,” Aziraphale agreed, nodding. He smiled in that way that turned Crowley into a complete mushy idiot that would do anything asked, and Crowley could have sworn the angel fluttered his eyelashes at him. “Would the doctor be so good as to prescribe me some cocoa?” 

Crowley pretended to deliberate. “Cocoa’s not part of the healing process.” 

Aziraphale pouted. “Well, it would certainly make _me_ feel better.” 

“Fine.” Crowley made his way to the kitchen, grumbling. “But if you burn your tongue, it’s your fault!” 

“I’ll be careful!” Azirphale promised, laughing. 

Moments later, Crowley returned with a mug of hot cocoa, which was not hot so much as gently warmed, so that Aziraphale would not have to be _too_ careful. “Your medicine,” he said, trying not to react as his fingers brushed against Aziraphale’s while handing over the mug. As inconspicuously as he could, he sat down on the couch, almost but not quite touching Aziraphale. “Don’t go and choke trying to drink it all at once.” 

Aziraphale placed a hand over his heart. “I, Aziraphale, angel of the eastern gate, do solemnly swear that I will not choke, burn my tongue, nor injure myself with this cocoa in any way,” he intoned. He nudged Crowley with his shoulder. “Now will you stop fussing?” 

“Shut up and drink.” Crowley crossed his arms, displeasure etched onto his face. _Fussing_. The nerve of that angel. He glanced at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eyes, watching him savor the first sip of his cocoa with closed eyes and a blissful smile. That adorable, precious angel. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes to find Crowley looking at him the way he usually looked at the last biscuit in the tin. “Did you want some of the cocoa?” 

That was so ridiculously far from the mark that Crowley would have thought Aziraphale was teasing if not for his innocent expression. Crowley shrugged and took the mug. He could care less about the cocoa, but it would make Aziraphale happy, at least. 

Sure enough, Crowley was rewarded with a brilliant smile from Aziraphale. “Did you like it?” he asked, hands clasped. “It’s good, isn’t it?” 

Crowley didn’t even process the taste. All he could think about was how radiant Aziraphale was when he smiled, how his eyes shone and sparkled and his whole face seemed lit from within. It was almost more than he could bear to look at, like staring at the sun. “’S fine, I guess,” he said, giving the mug back to Aziraphale. He scooted closer on the pretense of straightening a pillow and did not return to his former position, pretending to take a sudden, intense interest in the ceiling. 

A few seconds passed, then Aziraphale tentatively closed the gap between them, nestling against Crowley’s side, one hand splayed over the blankets. With agonizing slowness, with the utmost of caution, Crowley placed his hand on top of Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale let out a soft sigh of contentment and laid his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “What a lovely day it’s been.” 

Crowley thought of the goose attack and grimaced, then he leaned over so his head bumped against Azirphale’s, making the angel laugh. “As long as _you_ had fun.”  
  
“Splendid fun.” Aziraphale moved back so he could see Crowley’s face, and his eyes were so full of love that Crowley had to look away. “Are you feeling any better now?” he asked. “Any less. . . worried?”

Crowley’s first instinct was to lie, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Aziraphale cared; he would want to know the truth, even if it was unpleasant. “I don’t think it’s the sort of thing that just goes away, angel,” he said as gently as he could manage. “It’s not so bad now, but. . .” Even with Aziraphale safe beside him, Crowley couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways they could be torn apart, all the terrible things that could happen. Unlikely things, most of them, but not impossible. “. . .I’m not _not_ worried.” 

“Oh. . .” Aziraphale placed a gentle hand on Crowley’s cheek. “I will do whatever I can to help you, Crowley,” he said, his voice quivering. His kind eyes filled with compassionate tears, and Crowley felt like he was being stabbed. 

“ _I should have lied_ ,” he thought. “ _It’s my fault. I made him cry. This is all my fault. . ._ ” 

Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed Crowley’s forehead. “Thank you for your honesty, my dear.” 

Crowley shook his head, too deep in his emotional turmoil to even begin processing the fact thatAziraphale had just called him, ‘my dear’. It was just another kindness he didn’t deserve. That was all. “You’re crying. That’s nothing to thank me over.” 

“I’m only upset because I care about you,” said Aziraphale slowly, as if he knew it would take the words a while to penetrate Crowley’s mind. He wasn’t used to anyone being concerned on his behalf— aside from Aziraphale, of course. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley in a gentle embrace. Tears slipped off his cheeks and onto Crowley’s coat. “I want you to be happy, but I don’t want you to lie to me if you’re not.” 

Crowley was silent for a moment, letting the angel’s quiet breathing and steady, patient heartbeat calm him as Aziraphale’s warmth seeped into his skin. “I won’t.” 

“Well, then. . .” Aziraphale gave Crowley a slight squeeze, then pulled back. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Just. . . be here,” said Crowley, reaching out and taking Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale did not move away. “That’s all.” 

In spite of the tears lingering in his eyes, Aziraphale smiled. “Of course.” 

Crowley cleared his throat. “And, maybe you could put your head on my shoulder again. I don’t know. It seems like that might help.”  
  
Aziraphale laughed. “Well, you’re the doctor,” he said, obligingly laying his head on Crowley’s shoulder. His fingers traced tiny circles on Crowley’s hand. “And. . . perhaps you could run your fingers through my hair. If you think it would help.”

Crowley smiled, already stroking Aziraphale’s soft curls. “Maybe it will.” He kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head. “Thank you, angel,” he whispered. 

Aziraphale nestled even closer. “You’re very welcome, dearest.” 

“ _‘Dearest’_ ,” thought Crowley, the words setting off a sensation in his chest that felt dangerously like butterflies. He glanced toward the door that led into the plant room. “ _Take that, bastards._ ” 

**Author's Note:**

> the boo boo the foolery that is me writing good omens fic despite not having finished the show continues on because i spend all my free time drawing aziraphale or writing fanfic instead of idk ACTUALLY WATCHING THE SHOW or something 
> 
> also yes im sure the spacing/formatting is fucked up in places but its late and i have work tomorrow so ill fix it later maybe. probably not. we'll see.


End file.
